


The Apology, Manifest

by hwshipper



Category: House M.D.
Genre: M/M, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-03-16
Updated: 2008-03-16
Packaged: 2017-10-07 12:05:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/64994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hwshipper/pseuds/hwshipper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for a request for <i>'a story about the first time House and Wilson get together post-Tritter.'</i> Set post 3.11 Words & Deeds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Apology, Manifest

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was both written and beta'd for donations to the [](http://community.livejournal.com/rsl_bday_drive/profile)[**rsl_bday_drive**](http://community.livejournal.com/rsl_bday_drive/) . Written as a thank-you for a donation by [](http://wideshoe.livejournal.com/profile)[**wideshoe**](http://wideshoe.livejournal.com/), and beta'd superbly by the masterly [](http://savemoony.livejournal.com/profile)[**savemoony**](http://savemoony.livejournal.com/).

WILSON: The apology, you didn't need to do that to make this work.  
HOUSE: Believe what you want.  
WILSON: Goodnight House.  
HOUSE: Goodnight, Wilson.   
_3.11 Words and Deeds_

* * *

It was the day after, and Wilson waited in his car outside the police station. He had the heater on full blast, but still felt cold. He blew on his hands to keep warm.

House emerged, and Wilson observed House walk to the spot where he'd left his car the day before. He saw House purse his lips and frown at the empty space, then lean on his cane and scowl at the realization that he'd parked in a two hour tow zone.

Wilson continued to wait, and watched as House's head rose with hopeful anticipation. House looked all around, eyes sweeping the street, until he spotted Wilson. He then strolled over and opened the passenger's door, as if he'd always expected Wilson to be there.

"They towed my car?" he said in an accusing tone, as if Wilson had had it towed. House fastened his seat beat and shot Wilson a glare.

"No," Wilson said. "I drove it back to your place yesterday, after I left you in the cell."

House wedged his cane in the back seat and pondered this for a moment. "And your own car--?"

"Took a cab back after, and picked it up."

House was silent for a moment, then said, "You didn't have to."

"No," Wilson agreed, and started the engine. "Guess I didn't want to see you sitting at the bus stop."

House grimaced. Wilson felt a brief pang of guilt, but quashed it, and asked brightly, "So, where to? Back to rehab?"

House threw Wilson an incredulous look.

"All right, so there's no point," Wilson acknowledged. "Not now that Voldemort's slipping you the Vicodin. Home?"

"Breakfast first. Prison food sucks," House said, and Wilson pulled away from the curb.

* * *

They went to a nearby diner, the kind of place they'd been a hundred times before. House ordered a huge plate of ham and eggs and home fries. Wilson had already eaten breakfast, but succumbed to waffles with maple syrup, knowing House would claim some of it. House went all out for the waffles, dunking pieces of ham in the maple syrup and generally snatching bites whenever he could.

Twice during the meal Wilson saw House's hand flit towards his inside jacket pocket only to jerk away. Not popping Vicodin in front of Wilson; that was a first. Wilson supposed it might be a good sign. He wondered if House had made good use of the few pills in that envelope from Voldemort.

Meanwhile, they avoided any mention of the court case, drugs, or cops.

"So what happened on General Hospital last night?" House asked innocently, knowing full well that Wilson wouldn't know.

"The amenities in your cell didn't stretch to a TV?" Wilson asked, amused.

House rolled his eyes. "Clear breach of my human rights. TV deprivation. We hear about sleep deprivation, why doesn't TV deprivation get the same publicity?"

"Maybe because it doesn't actually cause physical or psychological harm—oh, sorry." Wilson held his hands up. "Anyway, you don't need General Hospital when you've got Princeton Plainsboro. There was that patient in the ER last week who complained that another patient had hit on her--"

"Yeah, another woman," House nodded. "Which was the _only_ point of interest. That sexual harassment case going on in Finance, on the other hand…"

It was just typical, Wilson thought, that they were gossiping about hospital events while completely ignoring the fact that it was actually House who was the talk of the town right now.

Near the end of the meal, Wilson realized what this reminded him of; a first date. A very peculiar first date, admittedly, but with some of the same elements. Much dancing round the serious issues at hand, talking about frivolities instead. General hesitant flirting, not very obvious or going too far in case of rejection. He quashed a smile at the realization.

House noticed the smile, of course. "Penny for your thoughts."

"Oh, I was just thinking this felt a bit like a first date," Wilson said, deadpan.

A corner of House's mouth curled up. He reached out, dipped a finger in the maple syrup and stuck it in his mouth. "Then the obvious next question is--do you put out on a first date?"

"The question is, do you feel lucky?" Wilson replied, plucking one of House's fries from his plate and biting it in half.

"Well, do ya, punk?" House completed the reference readily. Wilson cocked his head and smiled, and House mirrored him. Reassured by House's smile—such a rare event recently—and by the normality of the exchange, Wilson found himself starting to feel a little more hopeful that things were going to turn out okay.

They finished eating, and Wilson excused himself to go to the bathroom. He lingered a little on his way out of the room, and watched from a distance as House went for his pocket again. He couldn't see House actually swallow a pill, but there was no doubt that was what he was doing. Wilson felt his good mood start to fade.

He went to pay the check. Habit of a lifetime.

* * *

Wilson drove House back to his apartment, and came in because House seemed to expect him to do so. He regretted it as soon as he walked in the door. He hadn't returned since Christmas Eve, when he'd discovered House lying on the floor between his own vomit and Mr. Zebalusky's empty pill bottle. The floor was empty and clean now, but the remembered smell rose up in his nostrils and bile entered his gut.

He turned abruptly to go, but House stood right behind him, and Wilson bumped against his chest. Before Wilson could move away, House bent his head and kissed Wilson gently on the lips. Then he lifted his free hand, the one not supporting his cane, and placed it tentatively on Wilson's arm.

Wilson hesitated, standing stiffly. Unexpectedly, House's words of a few days ago floated into his head. _I had no business blaming you for any of this. I know you were just trying to help me, protect me, that's what friends do... _And his own surprised reply, _Is this.... an apology?_

Of course House wouldn't, couldn't, apologize directly. But it _had_ been an apology; Wilson knew it, could feel it right there, right now, resting in the crook of House's arm. Wilson responded, kissing back, pressing his arm against House's fingers.

Having House right next to him again sent a small shiver down his spine. They hadn't been close like this since this whole Tritter mess had begun. Wilson felt the prickle of House's stubble, House's breath against his cheek, House's forehead resting against his own. The sense of rediscovery made every touch more intense, more meaningful. God, he'd missed this. _Fuck Tritter and his stupid vendetta_.

House pulled back slowly and said, "I have to go take a shower. One night in jail and my skin feels like it's crawling."

"Okay," Wilson muttered, glad to have time to think.

House headed for the bedroom, then the bathroom. Wilson glanced around the living room and the memory of House on the floor returned with a vengeance. He moved into the kitchen instead, pouring himself a glass of water for something to do. He found himself looking at a large pile of washing-up in the sink, and decided he couldn't stay there either or he would end up doing it. He wasn't sure quite why he was here, but it wasn't to do House's washing-up.

Wilson entered House's bedroom. House's jacket was lying abandoned on a chair. Wilson took a deep breath, and felt in the inside pocket; his fingers extracted the envelope, creased and folded. Empty. House must have had one last pill he'd been saving for that morning; now he was out.

Wilson shoved the envelope back, crumpling it in the process. So_ that_ was what he was there for. That was why House wanted him there; to write a script. And them having breakfast together, and that kiss... part of the game plan. Wilson felt his stomach churn at the thought. _For fuck's sake_. House was no different from a crack whore on a street corner, trading sexual favors for drugs. And what did that make him? The sleazy client, having his way and leaving the script on the bedside table afterwards. Or worse; the enabling pimp, doling out the drugs for continued services.

_No._ It wasn't like that. It wouldn't be like that. It hadn't been like that before. After all, he and House had been both friends and fucking for years and years, without the prescribing thing ever becoming such an issue.

Wilson kicked off his shoes, lay down on the bed, closed his eyes, and tried to empty his mind.

* * *

A short while later House emerged from the bathroom, humming quietly under his breath. Wilson, lying on his side, kept his eyes shut, but could hear House walking around the bedroom. The mattress shifted underneath him as House's weight came down onto it; Wilson felt the warmth of House's body close behind him.

Wilson could feel the apology, manifest in House's breath on his neck, arm curling around his shoulder, body arching around Wilson's back. _I'm sorry I fucked up your life_. House couldn't say it, but Wilson felt contrition in the gentleness of House's touch, House's fingertips delicately brushing his hip, House's lips barely brushing his earlobe. House was sorry; Wilson felt himself respond with a rush of pleasure, emotional and physical.

House's hand crept around and fondled Wilson's groin. Wilson pressed back against House's fingers, _apology accepted_. House's hand, thus encouraged, slid under Wilson's belt and into his pants, reaching for Wilson's now rapidly swelling cock. Wilson groaned at the touch of House's fingertips against his shaft; moving gently at first, then with increasing pressure. It had been weeks, _months,_ since Wilson had felt the touch of anyone but himself. Another minute of this and he would come right there into House's fist.

No, he wanted more than that. Wilson pulled away, sat up and removed his clothes rapidly. House watched, his eyes narrow slits of blue light. Wilson looked at House, damp and clean after his shower yet still grizzled; naked, his dark thigh resting between their bodies. As he looked, Wilson saw House's erection move slightly on its own. The small movement caused Wilson's own hard-on to twitch too.

Wilson bent down to kiss House on the mouth, and this was his own apology, manifest in his mouth tugging gently on House's lower lip, his tongue easing into House's mouth, his teeth pulling slightly on House's tongue. _I'm sorry too_. His cock brushed against House's cock, and the two men inhaled abruptly into each others mouths.

Then Wilson lowered himself on top of House, keeping his weight on his hands. House shut his eyes and muttered under his breath, and Wilson gasped, as they each bucked their hips and slammed into the other. Ramming together with aggression, as if the need for mutual relief had become urgent. Their cocks rubbing hard together, skin sliding against skin, arousing sensitive nerve endings. Wilson knew House was close; he thought he could hold off himself until House was right on the edge, the two of them climaxing together--

No, he wanted more than that too. Wilson shifted his weight back onto his hands, lifting himself up. He watched House's eyes open, fizzling with frustration. Wilson moved back and gestured for House to turn over.

House snorted slightly, and muttered, "Wanna fuck me, do you?"

"Uh huh," Wilson muttered back. It was part of House's apology; the ascendancy currently rested with Wilson, and House was letting him do whatever he wanted.

House snorted again, and flopped over, yanking a pillow underneath his bad leg.

Wilson reached for the lube and condoms, in the bedside cabinet drawer. The tube of lube was nearly empty; Wilson imagined one of Tritter's goons finding it when raiding House's apartment and squeezing it dry just for the hell of it--best not to think about that. There was just enough left; Wilson rolled on a condom and slicked a finger.

"_Ahhh,"_ House groaned as Wilson eased a finger up inside him. Wilson felt his own cock harden still further as House clenched and then relaxed against his finger. Then on two of his fingers, sliding in and out. _This was how it was meant to be. _God, it had been so long since they did this he could hardly remember.

House was twitching and uttering tiny helpless noises right under his hand.

"Ready for the real thing?" Wilson murmured eventually.

"Shut the fuck up and get on with it, you fucking tease." House's voice rang out loudly in the quiet of the room.

Wilson grinned and eased his fingers gently out. He felt House tense with anticipation, then attempt to relax. Wilson steadied himself, relishing the moment of control, then thrust up House's ass. The noise House made was practically a yell, and House's body jerked so hard his head actually hit the headboard; fortunately he barely seemed to notice. Wilson drove in and out, panting, building up a rhythm. He reveled as House took his lead, accepting his initiative; moving right along with each thrust, in tune with him.

Wilson managed to spare a hand to reach round and grasp House's cock, and a couple of strokes was all it took; House came hard and fast into his fist. A few relentless thrusts later, and _God oh God oh God _Wilson was right there with him.

But the ecstatic moment of climax was overlaid with unwelcome knowledge, as his head cleared--he'd jarred House's leg with his last agonized thrust. Although House didn't let out a sound, he couldn't conceal the brief, pulsing twitch that ran through his whole body; the small lurch that told Wilson instantly that House was throbbing with swift, unrelenting, pain. _Damnit._

Wilson sank down onto the bed and took a few seconds to recover his wits. Then he scooted over to the side of the bed, and groped on the floor for his own jacket. He reached into the pocket for a small orange bottle. He turned over, and handed it to House.

House looked at the label, saw his own name, and his eyes grew huge and astonished at the realization; Wilson had not only written a script already, but filled it.

First things first: deal with the pain. Wilson watched as House opened the bottle and shook out a pill. "When?" House asked as he swallowed it.

"This morning at the hospital pharmacy. You should have seen Marco's face." Wilson shook his head at the memory.

House was quiet, his face expressionless. Wilson knew House was thinking through the morning's events, fresh in the knowledge that Wilson had had these pills in his pocket the whole time. Wilson had come close to giving them to House over breakfast—but had held off, trying to see if the need had been real, or habitual. He knew now it was real. And nothing had really changed.

Wilson stripped off the condom, then glanced at his watch. Shit, he was going to be late. He reached to grab the rest of his clothes.

"You don't have to go," House said unexpectedly, and that surprised Wilson, pulling on his shirt. He thought of his crack whore analogy, and wondered if House was feeling something similar.

"I know," Wilson said, his tone soothing. "But there's stuff I have to do." He moved to sit on the edge of the bed, and pulled his shoes on.

He hoped he wasn't hurrying away too quickly. The fact was, he _did_ have stuff to do, but not anything he wanted to tell House about. He had an appointment with his shrink that afternoon. And the effort to find a shrink that House wouldn't know or easily find out about meant that he had a two hour drive ahead of him to get there. Wilson didn't mind about the drive; he did mind about leaving House with the impression that he'd come round to get laid and hand out pills for the privilege.

He walked round the bed, perched on the edge next to House, and ruffled House's hair. "I'll come round tomorrow. We can watch the game?"

House looked at Wilson's face carefully, then content with what he saw, nodded. "Bring beer. And food. I'll need to get my strength up to face Cuddy's day of nonstop clinic duty on Monday."

"Will do." Wilson leaned over to kiss House. "Bye, House."

"Bye, Wilson," House responded, and Wilson felt his chest reverberate with pleasure at this simple exchange. Things weren't quite back to normal, but they were moving in the right direction.

As he left House's apartment, he wondered what his shrink would think about him prescribing for House again. What Tritter would say (not that he would find out). What Cuddy would make of it (and she _would_ find out, pretty soon).

Wilson didn't want to do it; but somebody had to, and truth was, nobody else would.

END


End file.
